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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199594">Your Grace Brings All The Animals To The Yard</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe'>endlessnepenthe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angel Wings, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Soft Dean Winchester, Wingfic, animals love Cas you can't change my mind, domestic bunker fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:48:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,376</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean starts noticing the animals.</p><p>He thinks it might be a curse.</p><p>It’s something much better. (It’s only Castiel.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Your Grace Brings All The Animals To The Yard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first time, he will never forget, because he nearly falls trying to keep from planting a foot on the damn thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whoa,” Dean yelps, instinctively leaning more weight to one side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He overbalances, and he swears his life flashes before his eyes; nothing short of supernatural monsters have ever knocked him off his feet, and yet—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel reaches out and nonchalantly grabs Dean’s hand, hauling him back upright with ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean has all of one second to be simultaneously glad for not falling on his ass — Sam would never let him live it down — and in awe of Castiel’s celestial strength being packed into a vessel smaller than Dean is. Then he forgets all of it in favour of indignant anger, glaring down at the squirrel darting around Castiel’s feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And because Castiel’s some graceful haloed being from heaven and Dean’s a bumbling neanderthal human, Castiel doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the squirrel that nearly planted Dean’s ass on solid concrete, stepping nimbly around it to get all up in Dean’s personal space.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Real hard to teach a dorky angel new tricks,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dean thinks, nearly amused. He’d given up on explaining ages ago, and his previous irritation doesn’t seem to be there anymore — he’s used to it. Might even go so far as to say he </span>
  <em>
    <span>expects</span>
  </em>
  <span> it from Castiel, now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean. Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam continues walking to the Impala, prodding at his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bless his giant moose legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean glances just slightly down to meet Castiel’s eyes. He could never avoid drowning himself in them; it’s as if those blue eyes exert a magnetic force, a gravity of their own, drawing Dean in. They always look at Dean like they’re seeing </span>
  <em>
    <span>into</span>
  </em>
  <span> him, as if they can peel back all the different fronts Dean puts on like a second skin, peel them back to see just what he is at his core. Perhaps he could. The soul is the core of humans, after all, and Castiel can definitely see those.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders what Castiel could see. Who exactly is Dean Winchester? Most days, Dean doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being known — by an ancient cosmic entity with bottomless oceans of power and knowledge, no less — is both comforting and frightening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean blinks. The blue eyes watching him hold concern in their fathomless depths. “I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something stubborn pinches Castiel’s brow. He raises a hand, first two fingers extended, and Dean catches his wrist. Castiel, as always, allows himself to be halted by Dean’s touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas. Really, I’m fine.” Dean absently drags his thumb over the soft skin at the underside of Castiel's wrist before letting go. “Kinda hungry, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a sort of tenderness in Castiel’s eyes, almost relieved. It scares Dean, the implication of an angel worrying after his health and wellbeing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, Cas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t think twice about the squirrel. It was probably a friendly one that’s been fed by humans before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s hot. And the sun’s way too bright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel himself sweating in the damn fed suit already. Dean glances at Sam, who is munching away at his rabbit food like some massive herbivore, and sees the sweat glistening at his temples.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’ll never understand how his idiot brother could stand having hair long enough to stick to the back of his neck. Especially in this weather. Maybe he keeps it for extra padding; poor thing gets hit over the head way too often.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least the burger is good. Dean takes another massive bite, shoving in a perfectly crispy fry for good measure. He chews, takes a sip of whatever soda Sam had gotten for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, what we got,” Dean says around parts of his burger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam — predictably — winces with his usual </span>
  <em>
    <span>why does my brother insist on talking with his mouth full</span>
  </em>
  <span> expression. He sighs, but puts down his loaded forkful of green to take out the file they’d gotten from the police, shoving some of the food to the edges of the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Report says the victim was…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean is definitely paying attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>100%.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, mostly. Maybe it was closer to… 75%.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t help himself from glancing at the occupied space next to him. Where Castiel sits perched on the wooden bench, prim and proper and unaffected by the heat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geez, even looking at him in his stuffy suit jacket and baggy trench coat is making Dean sweat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stuffing a good number of fries into his mouth at once, Dean nods along to what Sam is still saying. “Vengeful spirit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam takes a bite of his salad and hums in consideration. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Movement in Dean’s peripheral snags his attention. He takes a smaller bite of his rapidly shrinking burger, catching sight of a small sparrow on the table next to Castiel’s hands. It pokes at a wing with its beak — as if scratching an itch — and hops closer to Castiel, fearless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignorant, Sam chatters away as he flips through the file, listing all the possibilities hinting at whatever monster they’re trying to hunt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bird turns a dark eye on Dean, tilting its tiny head to one side before spreading its wings and fluttering away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I got it; so get this...”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Footsteps echo down the hall, getting closer with each passing moment. Judging by their weight and careful tread, it can only be…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean tops off his mug of coffee, grabbing another to fill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The footsteps pause in the doorway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mornin’, sunshine.” Dean sets down the pot without glancing up, pushing the mug towards the empty seat across from him. “Coffee?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know why he even asks, anymore; Castiel will always agree to having some. He supposes it’s just a habit he can’t break.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says, stepping into the room. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm,” Dean hums as he takes another sip from his own mug, and nearly chokes on his coffee when he finally looks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something </span>
  <em>
    <span>wiggling</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Castiel’s pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean coughs. “Uh— Whatcha got there, Cas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel stops a step away from his seat and frowns, following Dean’s wide eyes to his pocket. For a moment, he’s silent, watching whatever’s moving around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Castiel murmurs, like he hadn’t noticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Castiel dips a hand into the pocket, pulling out a gray bunny. It turns around on Castiel’s palm to face him, nose twitching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean feels like his eyes might pop out of his skill. “Why d’you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that a bunny?” Sam wanders closer, slightly wary. “Did someone get cursed or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel shakes his head. “No. I believe the little one got attached to me during our time spent together this morning. My apologies, I will go return—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam laughs, soft, and pets a finger down the bunny’s back. “You can give the poor thing some food first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean stares suspiciously at the bunny happily nibbling at the generous piece of lettuce pinched between Castiel’s fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why are animals following them around?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe someone is spying on them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean makes a mental note to keep an eye out for any suspicious witch related activities. He hates witches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He doesn't find any hex bags when he searches.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean also hates having to dig up graves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It always makes his knees hurt, his back ache. Not that he isn’t grateful for the exercise and an outlet for any frustration he’s harbouring; but as someone of a considerable height, it’s hell, staying bent over for so long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how Sam manages. Must be all the extra muscles he’s packing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean sighs and continues digging, until Sam’s shovel hits something. “Got it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Sam pants. “Get the stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got it.” He climbs out of the grave, straightening out his back with a low groan as Sam digs his fingers under the wooden lid of the coffin and wrenches it open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam hops out of the hole they’d dug, throwing down his shovel next to Dean’s. He grabs the salt canister Dean offers, and together they rebury the skeleton with salt and gasoline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel stands off to one side, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, watching with unreadable blue eyes. A tireless sentry. For a second, Dean almost sees the cold and aloof angel he had been when accompanying Uriel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Dean flips the lighter open, igniting the flame with a practiced flick of his thumb. He holds it up over the coffin, prepared to toss it in. Just as he’s about to let go, the lighter is snatched from between his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whoa,” Sam gasps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lighter in its beak, the crow flaps its wings almost lazily, hovering just out of reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s mind races. They need to burn the bones somehow. “Sam,” he snaps, “we got any matches?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do we have any that still work? We should.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam blinks. “Maybe—” He falls to his knees next to the duffle they’d brought, digging around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outrageously calm for how panicked Dean feels, Castiel slowly raises a hand, palm out. He looks up at the damn thief of a bird.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please return that,” Castiel says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean nearly scoffs aloud.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, right. Like that’d work.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The crow doesn’t move — beyond a gentle rise and fall in the sky, wings working to keep it aloft — for a few seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean wonders if Castiel could catch it if he tried. He does have wings, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, to Dean’s absolute shock, the crow dives to land on Castiel’s outstretched arm, talons curling into the tan sleeve of his coat. It turns to stare at Dean with beady eyes, before hopping closer to Castiel’s wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Son of a bitch.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dean wants to shoot the thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel smiles when the crow drops the lighter in his palm. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bird caws a harsh sound. It sounds almost pleased.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aha!” Sam finally holds up a small box of matches, one arm still elbow deep in the duffle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s alright, Sam.” Castiel reignites the lighter’s flame with ease, tossing it into the open coffin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bones catch instantly with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>whoosh,</span>
  </em>
  <span> flames licking high up the earthy sides of the grave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All in all, it’s a pretty smooth salt and burn, but Dean still itches to shoot the bird on principle when it takes Sam’s offering of a shiny coin and flaps off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe they’ve been cursed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He isn’t spying, okay?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s just going for a walk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yep. It definitely has nothing to do with him seeing Castiel wandering into these same woods — rather frequently too, if he might add. Maybe it only seems so since he hasn’t paid it any attention until recently.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s just going for a walk.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Or so Dean tells himself as he’s borderline sneaking through the foliage on the forest floor, instinctively avoiding any twigs as he goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a bright summer day, the sun already out with warm rays despite the early hour. The light shines prettily through vibrant green leaves on the trees; its soft glow lends the forest an almost magical tint, as if only tiny peaceful woodland creatures would reside within this tranquil space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Birds chirp a sweet, cheerful melody in the distance. Dean doesn’t really know where he’s trying to go but he continues plodding forward; he’ll be able to see if he somehow walks past Castiel, right? It’s pretty difficult to hide a light beige coat within the dark browns of tree trunks and leafy greens of plants…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Abruptly, the forest thins out into a clearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean pauses. He glances around, noting how there seems to be a bunch of critters — bright songbirds and brown sparrows, determined squirrels and energetic chipmunks — gathering. They’re collecting near a dark mass in the center of the space, and when Dean squints, he realizes it’s made up of midnight feathers.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A huge bird?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>After dealing with all kinds of supernatural creatures that shouldn’t exist, he supposes nothing can surprise him now. Not even a massive bird with wings appearing to span farther than Dean is tall and feathers longer than his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sincerely hopes it’s peaceful and hasn’t noticed him yet; he knows he should leave it alone, inch back the way he came and continue looking for Castiel like he intended, but Dean finds himself drawn to those wings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why? Well, first of all: they’re huge. Massive, hulking things — they could probably knock someone out with a single sweep, isn’t that a thought — with likely super powerful tendons and musculature to move them around. Dean’s a man who appreciates strength, alright?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what really makes him want to move closer to see better — or even touch — is how delicate they are despite their size; he’s picked up enough random trivial knowledge about all sorts of topics to know bird bones are lighter for the purposes of flight. And he’s never forgotten his awe whenever he used to find a discarded feather laying around in the wilderness during hunts with his father, the feeling of soft vanes bending and bouncing back when he ran the tips of his little fingers almost reverently over the sides. He might not be as curious about the world as he once was, and he’s definitely no nerd like Sammy, but he’s still quite interested in understanding how things work. (Even if he likes to pretend otherwise — </span>
  <em>
    <span>pfft who even reads books?)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Not to mention how </span>
  <em>
    <span>black</span>
  </em>
  <span> those things are. Do they even exist? Normal black would still reflect some light the human eye could pick up, but these wings, looking at them is like looking into an abyss. They’re not black in the way a shadow would be — they’re dark in the way of absolute nothing. Like a void. No colour, no light; nothing. Only the faintest shimmer of colour — </span>
  <em>
    <span>like looking through a soap bubble,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dean muses — exists at the edges of the feathers, a wavering mirage giving shape to an otherwise empty chunk of space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Dean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jumps, startled, and slaps a hand to the nearest tree trunk. “Holy shit—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those magnificent wings lower a few inches, even more of their feathers sprawling over the grass, eating away at the green like spreading tar, and a pair of very familiar blue eyes peer out at Dean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha— </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cas?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel tips his head to one side. A finch lands on his shoulder to poke curiously at the collar of his coat. “Hello, Dean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>All this time, and he could’ve seen these?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought— I thought seeing these would fry my eyeballs,” Dean says, rather meekly. He can’t stop his own feet from carrying him closer, his eyes trained on the glorious plumage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Castiel agrees, calmly watching Dean approach. “There are mere manifestations. Rather inadequate compared to the originals, I’m afraid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling a tad foolish hovering at Castiel’s side, Dean gingerly sits down. Thankfully, the ground isn’t wet; that does make things much better. Not wanting to be caught staring, he fiddles with the grass at his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So— These got nothin’ on your true form, hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel hums a soft sound of affirmation. “Some adjustments had to be made in order to fit the parameters of this plane.” His wings shift, feathers rustling quietly as if to emphasize his point. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gosh</span>
  </em>
  <span> they’re much louder up close, nothing like the muted and airy </span>
  <em>
    <span>whooshflap</span>
  </em>
  <span> angels make whenever they disappear or reappear somewhere. “Size— and of course, reductions in quantity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quantity?” A squirrel darts towards Castiel, fluffy tail brushing over one side of Dean’s boot as it passes. “...You’ve got more than these?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seraphim have six wings. I’m sure you can imagine how inconvenient it would be to have so many in this form.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean tugs a little too hard, and a few strands of grass are torn from the ground. “That’s— That’s awesome,” he says, staring blankly at the green between his fingers. It almost causes him physical pain, not looking when every cell in his body wants nothing else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that so? You can hardly look at me.” If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d think there was a hint of sadness in Castiel’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He really doesn’t know any better.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I,” Dean finally turns to Castiel, eyes wide, “I did—” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Did want to look— Of course I want to look!</span>
  </em>
  <span> He fixes his gaze on the arch of Castiel’s wing, muttering the rest of his words. “Didn’t want to stare.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Castiel narrows his eyes in a squint. “You have my permission.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean runs a nail along the seam of his jeans at his knee. “Guess I do now,” he mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is no need to ask — or wait — for permission, Dean. My wings would not remain visible, had I not wanted you to see them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Dean can feel his cheeks heating from Castiel’s earnest words. He rubs the back of his neck. “Then…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little bird on Castiel’s shoulder takes flight, flapping its wings right in Dean’s face as it lands in his hair. Dean frowns upward as much as he could, nearly going cross-eyed trying to catch sight of the mischievous thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel smiles. It just barely curves the corners of his lips, but something proud and delighted swells in Dean’s chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Cas. What’s up with all the critters?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They can sense my grace.” Castiel holds out a hand, palm up, and a sparrow immediately makes a perch of his fingers. “I suppose it brings them peace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
  <span> So Castiel always enjoys sitting in the woods because he likes nature, and nature likes him as well. That explains the random animals following him around like he’s the best thing on the planet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel exhales, stretching his wings out. Slowly, as if he didn’t want to startle Dean or the animals all around them. Even so, they are large enough to displace the air with the movement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean tries not to flinch when a wing curls into a loose crescent behind him, the very tips of long flight feathers brushing the back of his hand. He’d thought they would feel exactly like a bird’s — with the resemblance in structure and everything — but it’s a curious combination of smooth silk and gently flowing water, only without the wetness. It’s so far from what Dean had expected, his brain takes a solid while to catch up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unaware of the mental crisis Dean is going through, Castiel tips his head back, closing his eyes. The sun caresses his face and highlights the dark fan of his lashes. Even his wings are carefully tilted, vulnerable underside turned to the sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if he’s capable of photosynthesis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel might be part chicken, but he sure ain’t part plant, not as far as Dean is aware. At least, he sure hopes not. That would be too many parts, and Dean’s pretty sure biology doesn’t allow a human body to create energy from sunlight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a pleasant sensation,” Castiel says, as if he could hear Dean’s thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crap, he must’ve been thinking real loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean chuckles. The bird on his head hops onto his shoulder, chirping a shrill noise. “Who knew, angels of the Lord enjoy sunbathing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...It is agreeable. My wings have been confined for… quite some time.” He says it as easily as mentioning the weather, as if Dean’s heart wouldn’t break to hear the hint of wistful sadness he couldn’t quite hide behind a flimsy tone of indifference.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His own stomach interrupts — rather rudely, too — with an audible yowl for food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t know what he was going to say, anyway. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry?</span>
  </em>
  <span> What would he be apologizing for, when he couldn’t understand how Castiel was feeling? </span>
  <em>
    <span>You could keep them out?</span>
  </em>
  <span> How presumptuous; it isn’t his place to decide whether or not Castiel wanted to manifest his wings. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t say somethin’ like that?</span>
  </em>
  <span> No, he couldn’t say that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gentle rush of wind stirs Dean’s hair as Castiel’s wings fold neatly at his back, twin mountains of negative space behind the slope of his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe you require sustenance,” Castiel declares, serious as ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s lips twitch with a smile. “Think you’re right,” he laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel nods solemnly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, uh, before we head back— S’there any way you could tell these things to lay off? Kinda hard to keep a low profile when you’ve got the wildlife tailing you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, Dean.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>imagine Castiel opening his mouth and straight up just... CHIRPS</p><p>this is basically crack lmao</p></blockquote></div></div>
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